I grew up in the small town of Staples. At that time, it was a railroad town and the town lived and breathed the Northern Pacific Railroad, later to become the Great Northern, but my dad still was a Northern Pacificer at heart and wasn’t changing his belt buckle for another railroad for nothing, but he did work for them. At least half the town worked there and the other half fed off of the ones who spent their hard-earned money in that little town. Striped railroad caps and red bandanas were the dress of the day. Osh Gosh was very popular. In the late forties and early fifties, the steam engines still roamed around the railroad yards and when you stuck your head out the door in the morning you smelled nothing but railroad. It was a stink somewhere between burnt coal and creosote. It was that way in the house too because that’s where dad hung up his overalls. If it snowed the whiteness of the new fallen snow was gone by the next day and all you had was sooty snirt and my mother crying over her dirty sheets she had hung out to dry on the clothes lines. She never had a dryer while I was there and never had a washing machine without those wringers.
It was a far different world in those days, crueler in one sense but better in others. We didn’t have Covid 19 but we did have polio, chicken pox, mumps, scarlet fever and measles. With the exception of polio most of us just got sick, got over it and went on with life. It if got too bad there were three doctors in town to tend to the sick. Two drug stores in town too but just don’t get sick on Sundays. We had our little Knob hill up on sixth Street where the well-heeled lived, merchants, doctors,’ bankers and such and yes there were plenty of not so fortunate people scattered around but no one really had their noses in the air so we had a good thing going.
The Police Department was straight out of Mayberry, the volunteer fire department was mostly merchants that worked up town, who showed up at the fire station in their butchers’ apron or greasy mechanics clothes or the guy from the lumber yard with his pencil still behind his ear. When the fire trucks headed out of town to the country it was a small parade that followed them. My dad would be about three cars behind them and then he would break away from the scene to be the first one back in town to spread the news because the only other way you could find out what was going on was to call the telephone operator and get her to spill the beans.
Hobos would come to town to work for food and yes, I said work. They lived in their shacks out by Dower lake but they made their way into town every now and then. My mom always gave them potatoes and coffee grounds and maybe a loaf of fresh bread if it was a baking day. They were a different breed than today’s homeless people, not by their nature but their plight was mostly of their own volition. They just knew there wasn’t any government programs for them, so they would mow a lawn or split some wood. It was seasonal because as soon as the snow flied, they were back on the freight trains for some place warmer.
I haven’t lived in Staples for 60 years. I know the Railroad isn’t much anymore and the hobos quit riding the rails. The Police have radios and college degrees and no one chases the fire trucks anymore. The Doctor’s have a fine hospital and Clinic, the drug store is open on Sunday and there are a lot of nice houses that aren’t on 6th St. and also, no one wears Osh Gosh.
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